


The Bordurian

by ewremrednaveldnawl



Category: Tintin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewremrednaveldnawl/pseuds/ewremrednaveldnawl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A weird and highly improbable little story about one of Tintin's most memorable enemies. I am trying to respect canon here, at least more than I am respecting the basic laws of weaponry and war, with which I am quite reckless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THE BORDURIAN SOLDIER

**Author's Note:**

> This story is violent and over-the-top, you have been warned. Also contains profanity.

The traitor’s hands were tied behind his back, black cords cutting into pale wrists, trembling fingers clasped together, stained with blood and sweat. The rain hammered down on the roof of the bunker, silent and somber as the drums of death, mud gushing in under the door, carpeting the floor where the traitor knelt.

“I have always been loyal to our cause,” he said in a voice as anguished and broken as that of a child. A child’s voice from the lips of a man as old and broken as the roof above.

The soldier looking down at him lowered his gun.

He had promised Colonel Musstler that he would execute the man but he had stood for a solid ten minutes trying to muster up the courage to pull the trigger. Logic and reason screamed at him from within, reminding him of his duty, reminding him of what the man was. The traitor was old, old enough to be his grandfather, cowering and trembling behind a matted, muddied grey beard. How many years did he have left in him? Especially out here on the battlefield. One if he was lucky. And one year spent suffering in the trenches if that. To kill him would be a mercy. He was a traitor, a servant of the thrice-cursed Syldavians, enemies to Borduria for hundreds of years.

_If I don’t kill him Colonel Musstler will. What difference does it make?_

He closed his eyes, put his finger on the trigger and did nothing.

“You are only prolonging my suffering!” groaned the old man, as if in answer to his thoughts. “If you truly suspect me of treachery, boy, pull the trigger and be done with it.”

The soldier was eighteen years old. He had a round, affable face, a button nose, small beady eyes and short hair which curled up at his forehead in a small quiff. He was a young man of simple tastes, a man who enjoyed sitting by the fire and reading, walking his dog, listening to the stories of his grandmother. He was not meant to be a killer and there was a time when he would have said he was not meant for the life of a soldier either. But the call had come and he had answered it, to fight for Borduria, to defend the people, to vanquish evil. _To kill Syldavians._

“You are Syldavian by birth,” he said in the boldest voice he could muster.

The old man spat. “And if that should make me a traitor then by all means execute me. But I have served Borduria since I was younger than you are. The information I gave to General Sprodj was entirely devised to mislead him. I meant to lure him into a trap. Everything was in readiness when Colonel Musstler found me and brought me in. He ruined our chances at capturing a mortal enemy. And now he doesn’t even have the balls to execute me himself!”

The young soldier knelt down in the mud beside him, pulling the as yet unused chair that Colonel Musstler had left for him and lifting the old man to sit on it.

“What is your name, old timer?” he asked evenly, never once lowering the gun from its position at the old man’s breast.

“Vaskar,” came the breathless reply. They sat in silence for a few moments, the rain drumming down on the roof.

“My name is Sponsz,” said the young soldier. “I’m the man that reported you to Colonel Musstler. He believes therefore that I should be the one to execute you. To this day I have never taken a life. I am new to war.”

“It shows,” hissed the old man venemously.

“I suppose you have a family at home,” said Sponsz. “Back in Syldavia-”

“I have lived in Borduria all my life!” roared his prisoner, his voice rising from the childish whimper to a full scream. “I am as much a Bordurian as you, as Colonel Musstler, as everyone in our fucking country!”

Sponsz remained calm. “I apologize, Vaskar,” he said. “The point I am trying to make is – I will not pretend to feel hatred for you or to write you off as an enemy. You are a soldier just like me, just like Colonel Musstler, doing what must be done to survive.”

The old man laughed mirthlessly. “You believe that by befriending me you will find it easier to kill me? You are wrong. I have taken many lives, boy, and the only way I was able to do so was by despising them, viewing them as instruments of my enemy, lusting for their blood.”

“I will not let war make a butcher of me,” said Sponsz. “You are probably a good man. You deserve to die with dignity. That is all I wanted to say.”

The old man scowled at him with pure loathing. “Alright," he said, "say that I do. You are clearly not going to let me go so pull the trigger and have done with it.”

“I can’t,” said Sponsz. “It would not be right for me to do it. You are a seasoned fighter. I am a green boy who has never even taken a life.”

“Perhaps that is why Colonel Musstler ordered you to kill me.”

“Perhaps,” said Sponsz, “but I cannot.”

“Then maybe war is not for you,” said Vaskar. “You can’t get out – I understand. Take the coward’s way out if that is what you are and take your own life along with mine.”

Sponsz shook his head.

“Alright,” said Vaskar, “then untie me and I’ll kill us both. As long as you let me put a bullet in that fool Colonel Musstler for botching my operation-”

“Silence,” said Sponsz, as firmly as he dared. “I will not hear you call him a fool. You will stop trying to provoke me. We will wait until the Colonel returns and then he will execute you swiftly and with the dignity we owe to you. That is the best I can offer.”

“Musstler is a foolish cunt,” said Vaskar.

“I have warned you already, do not use such words to speak of the Colonel!” shouted Sponsz. “His name is Colonel Musstler and he is the most honorable man I have ever known.”

“He’s an evil, Bordurian _cunt_ , on a mission to destroy the glourious nation of Syldavia and all who call it their home.”

Sponsz knew the man was trying to provoke him into shooting. He closed his eyes and breathed in the filthy stench of the bunker, trying to keep calm. His hand remained steady on the gun.

“Musstler will die, as all Bordurian scum will die when Syldavia triumphs!” spat the old man. “You will not last another week in the army. You will be captured, raped, tortured, murdered! Syldavia will prevail!”

“I do not care what you say about me or my country,” said Sponsz softly, feeling sweat dripping from his trigger finger as it tensed.

“Musstler, the Bordurian scum, will be wripped to pieces and fed to his own men when we get him,” hissed the traitor. “Musstler the fool, the blind Bordurian fool who will sit in whatever trench his government digs him and stuffs him into, aimlessly killing Syldavians while real soldiers surround him, waiting to strike. And when they do they will feed his own balls to him, they will flay him and beat him, they will-”

Sponsz pulled the trigger. The force of the shot flung him backwards into the mud. His hands were trembling now and there were tears in his eyes. _He is wrong_ , the gentle voice of logic said in his head, _he lied to me to provoke me and now I have fallen into his trap. I have killed for anger, not for duty. I am a coward and a fool._

To his horror he heard a roaring, a screaming, a spluttering and he opened his eyes to see the traitor writhing on the muddy ground, blood mingling with the rain that fell through the holes in the roof. Vaskar clasped at his throat and shouted for help, shouted for Syldavia, for Borduria, for anyone that would come to his aid. Trembling, crying, willing all of this to come to an end, Sponsz fired a second shot but missed his mark, shooting into the mud instead. A bloody hand clasped at his leg and he saw into the old man’s eyes, bloodshot and terrified, heard his rasping plea for death. Then another gunshot came, seemingly from a thousand miles away. Vaskar’s body gave a jerk, then settled peacefully on the muddy floor, his weeping eyes wide open.

Sponsz looked up to see the hulking frame of the strongest, bravest man he knew, standing in the doorway to the bunker with a gun in his hand and a smile of encouragement on his face. Colonel Musstler had returned to deliver him from harm once again. Despite everything he had been through, he smiled as well. 


	2. MUSSTLER

A minute later the smile was gone and Colonel Bennolf Musstler held Sponsz as he vomitted out the door of the bunker and collapsed trembling into his superior officer’s arms. He carried him inside and laid him down on his bunk, where he lay in a cold sweat, shaking and crying uncontrollably. Sponsz watched through a veil of tears as the big man carried the broken body of Vaskar outside, returned, sealed the door and set about lighting a fire where the body had been. He fetched down tin cans, cracked them open with his knife, and prepared two plates of food. “Come, Sponsz,” he said. “Sit.”

Even before their first meeting three months ago, Sponsz had heard of the valiant and brave soldier that had saved his life so many times. Musstler had served Borduria from his first breath, a patriot with an iron will, an unbreakable resolve and a true code to which he always abided. Sponsz had been awe-struck by him from the very moment Musstler’s powerful hands had first clasped his. Now that they were the only survivors out in this wasteland and Sponsz had to acknowledge that there was no better companion to be trapped with, as intimidated as he was by him.

Musstler had a tremendous, hulking frame, his uniform practically bursting from his muscles, his hands enormous, capable of crushing Sponsz’s head between them. His face was hard and stern, his chin broad, his eyes dark and brooding. He had a receding hairline and jet-black hair down to his shoulders, a fine beard and mustache and a cruel smile that Sponsz liked to believe was reserved only for him on the rare occasions that he impressed the Colonel. Musstler had killed too many men to count but he did it all in the name of Borduria, slaying the Syldavian enemies that had pestered their nation for so long with grace and honor. Sponsz firmly believed that there was no man so powerful, so proud and so dignified as Musstler, even though he would never say so himself.

He slowly dragged himself off the bunk and trudged over across the muddy floor to sit down beside his leader.

“For how long had he been lying there like that when I arrived?” asked Musstler in his deep, solemn voice.

“Not long,” said Sponsz softly, choking on his shame. He stared into the fire, its warmth on his face a small comfort. Musstler handed him his plate of food.

“It’s awful,” said Musstler, “but it will make you feel better.”

“I cannot eat.”

“Eat,” said Musstler sternly. “I’ve lost my superior and all but one of my men. I’m not losing you as well. And if I do it will be to battle and I will avenge you. Alright? I cannot avenge you if you starve.”

Sponsz nodded, still trembling and bit into the food. Musstler removed his enormous coat and wrapped it around Sponsz’ shoulders. It was big enough to envelope his entire body.

“Colonel, you shouldn’t-”

“You needn’t call me Colonel now. We’re equals in this place.”

“This place” was the cold wasteland on the outskirts of Borduria. Ever since the recent invasion of Syldavia, Borduria had been under attack as the enemy demanded the withdrawl of their troops. Musstler and other men like him had been defending their land but the Syldavians had slain most of them and now their home and all who lived in it were under threat.

“He was a traitor,” said Musstler evenly. “Whatever he told you while I was gone, he _was_ a traitor. Did he tell you he was trying to deceive the enemy?”

Sponsz nodded.

“A clever move. I would have said the same. As it happens, he was not. I would never send an innocent man to his death, Sponsz. And I would never make a new recruit kill one. You understand that?”

“I do.”

“Good. Eat.”

Sponsz took another small bite, willing himself not to throw up again.

“I suppose he tried to break your spirit,” said Musstler. “Tried to tell you that you were unworthy, or that I was a fool, or that we would both be captured and brutalized by Syldavians.”

“He said all of those things,” said Sponsz softly.

“Good. Because most of them are true. We are all fools out here, killing each other over land,” said Musstler. “Myself included. And as our enemies grow stronger, we run the risk of falling prey to them everyday. They could storm in here right now and take us both. Every minute of every day and night we must be vigilant, Sponsz. Lest we be taken unawares. And even then we may be taken. We may die. Borduria may fall. It does not matter. We continue the fight. And if you ever believe you are unworthy even for a second I will be swift to remind you that you have outlived some of the finest soldiers I ever knew.”

“Th-thank you, Colonel.”

“Dispense with the ‘Colonel.’ I am a commander I know, but there is no need for all that here. Finish your dinner and I will tell you a story of home.”

Sponsz’s favorite thing in the evenings was to listen to Musstler talk of Borduria, the beautiful, rich and exciting Borduria that nobody saw. Far and wide people praised Syldavia for its mountains and forests and culture, but nobody saw the great rivers, the majestic old buildings, the theatres and parks of Borduria. There was no place in the world where Sponsz would have rather been born, and there was no country he would prefer to fight for. It was always bittersweet to hear Musstler speak of the home that seemed so far away. “If you love your home,” he would always say, “then be willing to die for it.”

But when he finished his dinner tonight, Musstler said, “Why don’t _you_ tell me something, Sponsz? What has your life been like?”

“Sir, I have barely lived,” said Sponsz. “I’ve never travelled beyond our country. I never… I’ve never made love. I never even killed before today, and even then it wasn’t a proper kill.”

“It will all come with time,” said Musstler, his hard eyes seeming to smile encouragement. “You’re only eighteen years old and you’re out fighting for your people. You are loyal and honest and strong. That seems to me like a man who has lived.”  
“I am not strong, sir. I couldn’t even-”

“Yes, yes, you hate violence. Stop thinking that makes you special. I was as idealistic as you are when I was your age. War breaks you. Time breaks you. The world breaks you. Some day you may be just like me, and believe me you will be thankful for it. Now you said you’ve never been with a woman. Have you ever been in love?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Never love. Not even for a second. It will be your undoing, I swear it.” Musstler set down his plate and lay back on the muddy floor, his hard, lined face sparkling in the light of the fire.

“Have you, sir?”

Musstler nodded. “I was married once. You may find that difficult to believe. She’s dead now, of course. I doubt I’d be sitting here with you if she was alive. She hated the war. I did too back then.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“No need to call me ‘sir.’ Shall I tell you about her? About what good being married did for me? Finding love, fighting for glory with my beloved spouse waiting at home with a hot dinner?”

Sponsz nodded.

“Well,” said Musstler, “let me tell you first and foremost that I wasn’t a good deal older than you when I was married. I was sixteen when I first met her and twenty-two or three years old when I married her. She was from Szhôd, which I take it is where you are from as well?”

Sponsz nodded.

“Good. Well I loved visiting Szhôd. I met here there one night after I had taken a brutal beating from some boys in a tavern that I foolishly picked a fight with. I was all cut up and bleeding and I went to a different tavern down the road for a pint to numb the pain – of course I was too proud to seek medical assisstance. She was sitting there and she called me over – a bold move, considering that she was a girl and of low birth at that. Her name was Pusjkina. She asked me how I was wounded and I spent most of the night telling her elaborate stories of the various enemies I had faced in battle that evening, criminals in the streets that I had brought down to justice. By midnight I was so drunk that I apologetically confessed the truth to her, before heading out with a new bloodlust to find and kill the little shits that had beaten me. But Pusjkina pulled me back and calmed me and tended to my wounds and asked me if I minded if she would kiss me. Initially I was too proud. I had slept with girls before but none who looked at me with this sickening, doting gaze. So I spurned her and stepped out into the night for a piss and maybe another fight if I could find somebody who was up to it. A few minutes later, however, I ran back in, seized her and kissed her and it was sealed. I was conscripted a few months later but in all the years that followed I never slept with another woman. My heart belonged to Pusjkina and hers to me.

“Well, we were married, and girls all across Borduria weapt to see me wed. Men as well, but they wept for Pusjkina. She was a rare beauty, you see. When I next returned to war, I had the prospect of a wife and the family we planned to start to keep me motivated. But I was brash and foolish. I wanted her close to me so I set her up in an old disused bunker on the outskirts of the city, where she could live in the knowledge that I was not far away, fighting to return to her. A foolish dream, my friend. But I had left strong men, trusted friends to guard her and keep her company. “Word spread across the camp that my beautiful wife was not far away and my comrades japed that she and my friends must have been having a fine old time in their little bunker. I laughed along with them. I trusted my friends. But there was one in our camp whom I never trusted and his name was-”

Suddenly Musstler went quiet and the only sound was the rain hammering on the broken roof above them. The firelight danced on the chizelled face as his dark eyes stared off into the distance.

“It’s alright, sir,” said Sponsz. “You needn’t finish. This man, he… he went looking for her and-”

“Boris Jorgen,” said Musstler and he spat. “He had no interest in her, believe me. But he was interested in the rewards offered to him by our Syldavian enemies. You _see_ , Sponsz. Even back then. So he led the Syldavians into our camp and most of my friends were slaughtered. I was lucky enough to escape with my life, killing as many Syldavians in the process as I could, before rushing straight to the place where Pusjkina was waiting for me. But Jorgen had to be thorough. He led his Syldavian comrades there to kill the last of my comrades that had fled to hide out. By the time I arrived the place was drenched in blood, inside and out, and Pusjkina lay a few yards away with her face blown open. I can only be thankful for that. Had they caught her inside she may have been raped. As it happened, she tried to escape, and died in the attempt.”

There was silence again. Sponsz wanted to reach out and touch his Colonel, comfort him in whatever way he could. Musstler seemed to sense it.

“It was long ago, Sponsz,” he said. “I do not grieve anymore. I am not the boy that I was back then.”

Sponsz nodded. “But you said that back then you had dreams of valor and honor. That you fought for your country. Surely that has not changed.”

Musstler sadly shook his head. “That is where you are wrong, my boy. I fight still, yes, but not for those things. I fight because it is all I have. I fight because it gives me pleasure to build up Bordurians to greatness, to inspire them with values that I don’t even believe in anymore. The good of our people, the evil of Syldavia. Syldavians are not evil. They are just people and it pleases me to see them killed. I will continue to inspire impressionable youths like you with ideals and tales of valor until the day I die, but only because I want to make Borduria greater and to see every Syldavian man, woman and child slaughtered. And some day, perhaps when Syldavia finally falls, I will be rewarded for my heroism with a position of power there. I dream of it, Sponsz. Rulling over their broken nation as their people burn and fall at my feet. Calling for the Bordurian traitor Jorgen to be brought to me, having him subjected to tortures of which you could only dream. Then casting him out into this accursed wasteland where I have spent so much of my life trudging through shit, and abandoning him to waste away, alone. It is a foolish dream, driven by emotion, but who can avoid fantasizing? Perhaps some day I will have the power I seek and then I will crush Syldavia and all who dwell there. And _that_ , my boy,” he said, his voice rising to an angry boom, “is the kind of man you worship. The man you want to be. Does it frighten you, Sponsz? Does it make you want to turn back and abandon your ideals in this muddy shithole where you will surely die? If it does, then you are growing up and you are one step closer to having the balls to kill a man, to vanquish a nation, to fill my shoes. But perhaps you would sooner dream of love and honor. If so, then perhaps you would do well to do as Vaskar suggested when I was standing outside the door – slit your wrists and leave this war behind because you were not made for it.”

Sponsz sat in silence. The rain continued to pour in through the holes in the roof. Musstler gave an aggressive nod, rose, took his plate and went outside to scrub it in the rain. When he returned, Sponsz said, “I don’t want to give up. Will you teach me all you know?”

“Of course,” said Musstler with an encouraging smile. “I will make you the finest soldier we’ve ever had. And when I am finished, Sponsz, I will reward your courage and loyalty by taking you up into the Syldavian mountains on a little mission of our own. Would you like that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Sponsz, his heart racing. “But what’s in the Syldavian mountains? Your enemies?”

“Jorgen,” said Musstler.

 

 


	3. THE CLIMB

Musstler kept to his word. In the years that followed the war continued and Sponsz was trained and instructed, learning the secrets of warfare and survival. He was able to hunt, hide and even kill, albeit always in self-defense should they meet an enemy soldier face to face. Musstler was a harsh mentor but he transformed the unseasoned Sponsz into a proud and valiant fighter that never wavered from his principles, no matter what Musstler would thought of them, and always eager to serve and obey.  
Their days and nights were peppered with mud, blood and shit, dry meat, canned meat, semi-raw meat, hard bunks, scratchy blankets, potatoes, camp fires and rain. At the end of wartime, Sponsz was overjoyed to go home and visit the streets of Szohôd that he had missed so much, to taste a well-cooked meat stew and to invite Musstler to break bread with him. He secretly hoped that circumstances would permit that he and the Colonel never be forced to part. He had become so adapted to life with him.  
Now the time had come to make good on his side of the bargain. He was going to accompany Musstler into the mountains that lay on the outskirts of Syldavia, where Boris Jorgen had seen fit to make his home.  
Ever since hearing the story of Pusjkina, Sponsz had been haunted by dreams of Jorgen, always picturing him as a horrifying half-demon, half-man. These were mostly based on the stories and descriptions that Musstler gave him to keep him motivated.  
“Jorgen is a monster,” Musstler would say. “Ten times bigger than me with arms of iron and muscles of steel and teeth that long to rip into human flesh. There is no evil that he will not resort to in order to better his own position. I have encountered all sorts in my years as a fighter, Sponsz, but never have I encountered any man who embodied such unbridled evil as that man Jorgen. If you believe you knew fear in those muddy trenches that were our home for so long, I am afraid you must think again. The enemy that we must face is far beyond that.”  
Jorgen lived in fear and paranoia, it was said, after betraying his countrymen. The Syldavian government had rewarded him handsomely for his treachery, but he faced prejudice as a foreigner when he tried to live among them and so he had taken up living in his old war bunker up in the Syldavian mountains. A group of loyal Syldavian veterans who had fought alongside him and come to admire him for his unyielding cruelty and strengh had taken up residence there with him, probably paid to do so with the money he had been awarded, keeping him safe, sharing his food and no doubt sharing memories of their wartime adventures, including the murder of Musstler’s wife and friends.  
He has no friends now, Sponsz had realized. He is too afraid to love again so he has hardened his heart. He is intelligent and he understands people, but only as weapons or tools to meet his ends. Sponsz knew only too well that that was what he was to his Colonel, but he wanted with all his heart to serve him and provide him with, if not friendship, companionship, the closest thing to it. He was honored to have been asked to go along on the mission to defeat Jorgen. It reinforced his belief that the purpose of a soldier was not to blindly kill and conquer, as Musstler had implied, but to fight true evil, which this man Jorgen surely was.  
The night before they set out, Sponsz’ nightmares were worse than ever. He was at home in his bed in the capital city but he wanted more than anything for Musstler to be there, to speak to him in that deep, gruff voice of his and fill him with hope and strength. He saw Jorgen’s face as he pictured it in his dream, horrifyingly gaunt and sallow, mouldy teeth sharpened into fangs, gleaming eyes and thick lips wet with the blood of Musstler’s wife. It will be a pleasure to see him dead, he realized when he awoke.  
He ended up rising from his bed, stepping out into the night air and lying down on his back, staring up at the vast expanse of stars above him. He felt alone in his own country, and yet he was sure that he hadn’t before the war. He had become accustomed to hiding out in filthy bunkers in the company of Musstler, far away from society, from luxury, from comfort. Even women seemed strange and foreign to him now that he was home – even the ones in his own family. Musstler seemed to take it all in his stride. He was highly regarded all around Borduria, so he never lacked for company, but Sponsz was certain that he yearned for the thrill of battle.  
Now he was going to get it.  
They set out the next morning at sunrise and they had travelled three days by the time they arrived at the border. From there the true journey began, as they had to scale a sinister mountain range shrouded in a silver mist in order to get close to their destination. At first Sponsz foolishly believed that his wartime experience had left him with the strength to move mountains, but after a further three days of hiking his feet were riddled with blisters which had burst in his boots and soaked them with blood, while his body had become lean, his throat dry and his beard rough and sweaty. He had never wanted a beard and he didn’t feel any more of a man for it now. Every part of him ached and no matter how high they climbed or how far they trekked, it seemed to him that they never got even remotely closer to the valley where the monster awaited them.  
Musstler, as always, was resilient and strong, never even seeming to grow a sweat. He had cut his hair and beard for the purpose of the mission, and seemed to have kept in shape in the years since the war to the extent that he was able to run far ahead of Sponsz, scout the area and run back to roughly pull his protégé along behind him.  
All of their provisions were strapped to their backs, which made the climb even more painful. Some days they had to scale perilous mountainsides where Sponsz genuinely feared for his life, clinging onto jagged rocks as his hands blistered and bled, the hulking frame of Musstler, more muscular and resilient than ever, soaring high above him like an eagle.  
The nights were cold in a way that Sponsz had never experienced before. Several times he feared that he would lose his toes and fingers to frostbite, and he awoke every morning drenched in dew. Every night Musstler made a fire, and some nights he would sit close to Sponsz. On these occasions, Sponsz longed to lie against his comrade and embrace the warmth of his body, anything to survive this cold. But he kept his face brave and his heart cold as Musstler had commanded him to do, finding warmth and comfort in the rewarding smiles that he was so certain were reserved only for him.  
When they finally arrived at the valley, Sponsz collapsed to his knees and cried. He had feared death so many times along the way – when they had to hide from Syldavians who passed with their wagon, then when a rockfall nearly caused great strong Musstler to lose his footing, when the screech of some distant, unknown animal, awoke them in the night and left them fearing its approach for three nights after. But now they had finally made it, and the valley before them was the most beautiful place Sponsz had ever seen in his life. It was hard to believe that this was Syldavian territory, laden with bloodthirsty enemies.  
All around them, sunlight glinted on jagged cliff-faces, sparkling in shades of gold and red and purple. Lush, thick forests spilled out over the edges and far below was a small outlying village, smoke rising from its chimneys. The sky above was a bright and brilliant shade of blue, dotted with small white clouds, as vast and beautiful as the sea. Sponsz tried to hide his tears from his mentor but then he saw Musstler’s sharp, cruel mouth spread into a smile and the big man lifted him from his knees and embraced him for the first time. Syldavia is beautiful, Sponsz told himself, and I must not forget it. Never lose sight of the virtues of your enemies lest your perceptions of them become warped and they take you by surprise. Musstler had told him that.  
When evening fell they feasted on the last of the dry, salted meat they had been carrying. They did not sleep. Instead they clambered over to the edge of one of the cliffs, where Musstler pointed down into a dark cluster of rocks below.  
“The bunker is down there,” he said gravely. “At this moment, Jorgen and his cohorts are sleeping an hour’s climb from here.”  
“It is strange to think that evil is afoot in such a beautiful place,” said Sponsz.  
“You had better believe it,” said Musstler. “Beyond those mountains lies Syldavia. There are enemies far and wide.”  
Sponsz looked out at the dark, looming mountains and shuddered. By night the valley was less majestic and more imposing, its cliffs jutting cruelly out on the dark horizon, the starlight purple on the big black rocks, everything shrouded in a thin grey mist.  
“Are you ready?” asked Musstler.  
Sponsz nodded, unable to utter words. For some reason this terrified him more than being at war had. Perhaps it was the thought that in wartime every Syldavian they targeted was free game. This mission was deeply personal, far from legal, and utterly out of the ordinary. They were more than likely to die out here and Borduria would never know.  
Musstler had planned this to the last detail. He had taken time to explain his plans to Sponsz every night that they camped out along the way. All the same, Sponsz feared the man Jorgen and what he would do to them should he catch them.  
Mussler began the descent first and Sponsz slowly followed him, clinging to the cliff-face for dear life as they entered the deepest, darkest part of the valley. A flock of white birds was disturbed by Musstler’s foot and took off, cawing and flapping past where Sponsz clung to the rock, nearly knocking him off. After half an hour they came to a wide plateu where the night seemed colder than ever before and the cicadas were at their loudest. Here, lurking between two large hunks of rock and built into the mountainside, the harsh grey façade of Jorgen’s bunker could be spotted.  
Musstler brought out two guns from his backpack and handed one to Sponsz. Then he clasped his hands and whispered, “Inside that place we will meet Syldavians. Do not forget what they are. Do not forget what you are. Do not forget what he is.”  
Sponsz nodded.  
Musstler dropped his backpack and got on his hands and knees, crawling through the dirt. Sponsz followed. When they got closer it became clear that there was more to the bunker than appeared from the outside, with a large cave forming the back part of it and thick concrete walls forming the façade. Sponsz wished they had had such a structure for their dwelling during the war rather than the tumble-down hideouts they had been forced to use. It was a clear indication of Syldavian privelege.  
They were so close now that Sponsz could see the individual barbs on the wire along the walls, glinting fiercely in the moonlight.  
“Are you sure you are ready to do this?” whispered Musstler.  
Sponsz nodded. His fingernails were digging into his blistered palms to keep himself from trembling. He stepped forwards towards the heavy iron door as Musstler disappeared from sight.  
He was on his own now.  
Gun firmly in his hand, Sponsz stopped, took a deep breath and called, “Comrades!”  
His voice broke, making it come out in a squeak. He whinced and waited. A few minutes passed and he was going to shout again before the door creaked open and a soldier, armed and in uniform with the pelican emblem on his jacket, stepped outside. There were others behind him and all of their weapons were trained on Sponsz.  
“Greetings, comrade. What is your business coming all the way out here at this time?” asked the front man.  
Then came the grenade. With a spectacular crash it came, flinging Sponsz backwards onto the ground, his gun unintentionally going off in the process. The sky was lit with orange and the air was filled with the cawing of escaping birds, the shouts of men inside the building, the crackling of flames, clouds of cement and dust, the smell of smouldering flesh.  
Musstler ran out from his hiding place, a second grenade in his left hand and his weapon in his right. “Up, with me, now!” he roared.  
Sponsz leapt to his feet, clinging to his gun and followed his comrade to the concrete wall where they cowered in the shadows. Within a few seconds, armed men came storming out of the bunker. “There will not be many with him,” Musstler had promised. Now Sponsz hoped he had been right.  
There were six men outside now, but there was no fighter in all the world like Musstler. He opened fire on them even as they spotted the two intruders. There were shouts and screams and resounding bangs and Syldavians fell like flies at the entrance. Then Musstler motioned with his gun and Sponsz ran after him and in through a cloud of smoke and dust.  
They entered a dingy room where two more armed men were waiting. Musstler’s bullet got one of them between the eyes, splitting his head and spattering them all with blood. Sponsz shot the other in the stomach before Musstler finished him off. When reinforcements burst in from all sides, Musstler held up his other grenade and all fell silent. Ten more guns were pointed at the intruders, who both sank to their knees.  
“We come in peace,” said Musstler evenly. The men around him laughed.  
“Your comrades are dead and still you laugh,” said Musstler. “There does not need to be any more violence. I want to speak to your leader.”  
“He is already here,” said one of the men who had been standing in the doorway, shrouded by the smoke that billowed in. He pointed his gun towards a broad-shouldered man sitting in the shadows at the far side of the room.  
Sponsz had not noticed the enemy before and clearly neither had Musstler as he looked over and was distracted for a second. His face was white, his eyes transfixed, and in that moment one of Jorgen’s men brought his gun up between Musstler’s legs, striking him in the balls, sending him to his knees as a hand wrestled the grenade from his.  
Then there was chaos. Sponsz tried to open fire on the men that surrounded his mentor but he felt his own gun being knocked from his grip and a tremendous blow to his back. He fell to his knees, winded, as a heavy fist collided with his cheek, breaking a tooth, filling his mouth with blood.  
Through the liquid in his eyes he saw Musstler struggling against three men larger than him, one of their guns in his grip as he forced it up at the head of the man who held it and pulled the trigger with his enemy’s own finger, blasting a hole in the man’s face and causing his comrades to be temporarily distracted by the blood that showered them. Musstler is unbeatable, Sponsz had told himself so many times during the war, invincible, impossible to break. I am invincible as long as I am with him.  
Mustler charged forward now, headbutting the nearest man just as he shot another, gunshots striking the ceiling, sending dust and plaster down on top of them. Sponsz felt his hands clasped behind his back and willed their defeat to be another of his nightmares.  
No, he thought, please do not let us be taken. We have come too far, come too close to slaying this beast.  
Then he saw the man in the chair rise and reach for his gun, just as Musstler turned his weapon on him and shot him to pieces, sending a broken wreck of a man back onto his chair in a mess of blood and cushions and uniform. A look of satisfaction was on Musstler’s face now. His mission was complete and he was ready to die. But then he seemed to remember his protégé and turned around to look at Sponsz, on his knees with blood on his face and his hands clapsed behind his back. Sponsz realized now that a knife was at his throat. It was so close that he could feel the cold blade cutting into his skin. He saw Musstler drop his gun.  
“Alright,” said his mentor to the surviving Syldavians, “we are ready. Execute us if you will.”  
“We will not,” said the man in the doorway who had not fired a single shot, “until you have looked upon my face.” He stepped into the light and Musstler fell to the floor, seemingly struck down with rage and dissappointment. Sponsz put his head down and closed his eyes. He did not need to look upon the man to know who he was.


	4. JORGEN

Sponsz lay face down on a concrete floor, his hands tied behind his back with ropes that cut into his skin. He could hear Jorgen’s remaining three men kicking Musstler from all sides, the big man lying in a heap beside him. Clearly he was not important enough to be beaten, but he wished that it was him instead of Musstler.  
“Enough,” said the cold, harsh voice of Jorgen. “Musstler – rise.”  
Sponsz rolled onto his back, the taste of blood still warm in his mouth and watched as two men pulled Musstler to his feet. The big man had a black eye and a split lip, but he stood as proud as ever when faced by his mortal foe.  
Jorgen was taller than Musstler and looked to be stronger too. His hair was cut short and he had a toothbrush moustache in the old Syldavian style. He was unremarkable, really, apart from his stature; Musstler had built him up to be some kind of monster but in reality he looked like a common thug. He wore a reddish brown jacket, khaki pants and black boots.  
“How are you, Boris?” asked Musstler calmly.  
“All the better for seeing you, comrade. I will not prolong your suffering any further. Take them outside and execute them.”  
That surprised Sponsz. It came as an immense relief but he had expected Jorgen to give some terrifying speech, to hold them down and torture them or make them kill each other. From what he had been told of Jorgen’s cruelty, he expected him to carry out the killings at least. Instead, two men pulled Musstler towards the door as he shouted for Jorgen to do the deed himself and not prove himself the worthless coward that all Bordurians knew him to be.  
“I do not care what Bordurians think of me,” said Jorgen, inspecting the wreckage around him. The floor was littered with pieces of wood, dust, lumps of burning flesh, fragments of brain and skull, broken glass. “Borduria does not care for me. Syldavia has provided me with a home.”  
“You are Bordurian, filth!” said Musstler.  
Jorgen turned around and twisted into his mouth into what could have almost been a smile. “Half. I was born into a wealthy Syldavian family. I grew up in Klow. Truth be told I am as much Bordurian as you are Chinese.”  
“You came over to our side just to sell us out?” asked Musstler. Jorgen nodded. Musstler spat blood at him and Jorgen looked for a second as if he was about to attack his prisoner after all. Instead he seized Sponsz, pulling him up off the floor and flung him face-first into the pile of wreckage.  
“What is this?” he asked. “The best your country had to offer?”  
“He was my comrade in the war,” said Musstler proudly, “one of the few that your people failed to massacre.”  
Sponsz felt fragments of rock and wood digging into his face and willed his friend to shut up. He is no friend, he reminded himself, just a soldier and I was just an instrument of his vengeance. He told me so himself. Now he is done with me and he is happy to get us both killed or worse.  
Behind him he heard Musstler flinging insult after insult at the Syldavians, telling them that their country was filth, that their king was a fool, that some day Borduria would triumph and destroy them all. And while Musstler ranted and raved, his calm façade having finally cracked, and Jorgen stood listening with that strange half-smile of his, Sponsz rolled onto his side amidst the rubble and saw through blood and dust a small round object inches from his chin.  
He replayed in his head the events that had transpired before Jorgen revealed himself; Musstler had produced a grenade but one of the Syldavians had winded him and wrestled it from his grip. But Musstler had put up a terrific fight, had seized a gun, had killed several of the men around him.  
Sponsz’ eyes streamed and his head throbbed but he was certain that it was a grenade. Please, he thought to himself. Please, please let it be so. If the man that seized it had fallen back against the rubbel when he died… it had to be. Jorgen was beating Musstler again now, drawing cries of pain from the big man, but Sponsz gritted his teeth, ignored it as best he could, strained his head around to note that all three of Jorgen’s men were standing around their Bordurian prey and jeering. Sponsz edged forward, rolled onto his side again and turned his body around so that it covered the grenade. Then he had it in his hands and he felt the dusty air pouring into his lungs once again. He was breathing, he was crying, he wanted to laugh. Slowly he sat up, slipping the grenade into one of his blood-stained sleeves, and shouted, “Will you execute us or not?”  
Jorgen turned and looked down at him. He spoke brashly but casually as if refusing a beggar his spare coins. He seemed to take it in his stide that a hole had been blown in his home and that the majority of his comrades lay blasted to pieces all around him. “I have no grudge against you, boy. Contrary to what your Colonel here may have told you, I am a fair and reasonable man. You are free to leave right now. You can go back and tell your countrymen that Musstler is dead. Maybe they will start another war over it. You know how Bordurians are.”  
I’ll die before I leave him if that is what it comes to, Sponsz decided. “No,” he said.  
“Good. He’s trained you well. I must contact my superiors in Klow and inform them of the damage that has been done to my little hideaway. My men and I will need to relocate to the city. Let us hope the radio has survived this horror.” He marched off through the rubbel and down a flight of stairs. One of the three soldiers pulled Sponsz to his feet again and dragged him after the other two as they pulled the broken Musstler out the door, dragging him from both dies.  
The sun was rising now and the mountains around them were beautifully lit once again as they were pulled out into the bracing, dewey morning air.  
If I fail now it makes no matter, thought Sponsz. I will die for my country. For him. With him.  
He and Musstler were placed against the remains of the concrete wall as two of the men aimed their guns at them. Sponsz looked to Musstler for a signal, a gesture, a last acknowledgment but there was nothing. The man stood with his hands tied behind his back and a face of stone, eyes boring bitterly into the Syldavians.  
Sponsz let the grenade slip into his hand.  
“Ready!” shouted the third man – the one who did not have a gun.  
The men were standing just far away that the impact would not affect Musstler – provided he remained where he stood.  
“Aim!”  
Sponsz ran. He heard the gunshots as he swerved side to side, Musstler ducking behind him, one hand pulling the pin, the other launching it as far as it would go.  
There was a deafening crash and Sponsz fell face-first into the soil, the explosion enveloping the two men, the third drawing a knie, charging at Musstler as he crawled along the ground on his knees.  
As the fire blazed behind him, Sponsz pushed himself onto his feet with his knees, charged at the third soldier and tackled him to the ground, slamming his head into the dirt with his elbow and knocking the small knife from his grip.  
His vision was blurred again and he felt the Syldavian struggling and biting into his arm. Sitting on him, holding his legs down with his own, Sponsz grasped at the knife, seized it, cut into rope and flesh and liberated his hands at last.  
The Syldavian continued to struggle but Sponsz brought the knife around to his throat and then warm blood seeped across his hands and he felt bile rising up in him, his body shaking, the sound of screaming ringing in his ears.  
The soldier slumped to the ground and Sponsz sprang to his feet, drenched in blood, stumbling over to where Musstler lay panting, wrestling to free his own hands.  
Within seconds the ropes were cut and the two men were running side by side into the building, their eyes straining to find anything resembling a weapon in the darkness.  
Sponsz made a dash for the stairs, running through bleeding corpses and small piles of burning wood. He heard the footsteps coming towards him. Jorgen was running, gun in hand, but Sponsz aimed a sharp kick in front of him in the darkness, felt it hit its mark and heard the sound of Jorgen stumbling backwards and landing with a smack on the hard stone floor.  
The stairs led down into a cold cellar that dripped and stank of earth, oil and shit. Sponsz clambered down and grabbed Jorgen’s gun, which had fallen onto the second-last step. He found Jorgen himself groaning at the bottom, clutching his ankle.  
“Is it sprained?”  
“Not even. It’s not the first time someone shoved me down some stairs.”  
Jorgen looked up at his attacker with a calm that reminded Sponsz of Musstler. “Are all my men dead?” he asked. Sponsz nodded. “What about Musstler?”  
“Alive.”  
“Then I surrender. Congratulations. Execute me and be done with it.” Jorgen closed his eyes.  
“Can you stand?” asked Sponsz.  
“Don’t make me climb those stairs again.”  
“It would be cleaner,” said Sponsz, “to do it out there.”  
“You’ve destroyed my home and littered it with bodies,” said Jorgen. “What’s one more going to do to worsen the situation?”  
“Fair enough,” said Sponsz. “But I won’t be doing it. This is Musstler’s right.”  
“That won’t be necessary,” said a voice above him. He looked up and saw his Colonel limping down behind him, face covered with blood and dirt, body bruised and beaten, but a smile on his broken lips. “I must congratulate you, Sponsz,” said Musstler. “You’ve more than proved yourself today. I salute you, comrade. Now help me tie this traitor up.”  
Sponsz was confused. “Are you not going to execute him?”  
“It may surprise you to learn that killing is not always the only option,” said Musstler. “I would prefer to take him alive.” He took one of Jorgen’s arms and pulled him up, pressing him against the wall and clasping his hands behind his back. Jorgen cringed when weight was placed on his sore foot but otherwise he stood tall before his two wounded, worn-out captors.  
There was a roll of rope under Musstler’s arm. “Use this,” he said. “I found it upstairs.”  
Sponsz did not question the order. He pulled out the rope and helped his superior to tie Jorgen’s hands behind his back as firmly as he could. When Musstler was satisfied that he could not escape, he stood back and let the prisoner sit down on the bottom step.  
“I need water now,” said Jorgen softly. “Please.” The faint croak of a voice seemed slightly exaggerated, but it was difficult to be certain.  
Musstler ignored the request. “Come,” he said to Sponsz. “Let us see if we can get that radio working.”  
“But, sir…” said Sponsz, unable to hold his tongue.  
“What is it?”  
“We have him now. The man that butchered your wife, your friends… the man that betrayed our country. Are you really not going to kill him?”  
“Not today,” said Musstler. He looked down at Jorgen with a combination of loathing and curiosity. “Perhaps never.”  
“Please, sir,” said Sponsz, “if you are going to torture him then I’d rather leave. I appreciate that he has done terrible things but no man deserves to be-”  
“No one is getting tortured either,” said Musstler, with an edge to his voice. “I’m simply keeping him prisoner. Is that so difficult for you to accept?”  
Sponsz felt rage rising up in him. “I’m sorry sir,” he shouted, “but this is not wartime anymore! I accompanied you here because you asked me to as a favor and because I owed you my life! I have suffered for you, killed for you, nearly died for you, all to get to this man! And now that we have him you won’t even execute him? You were perfectly willing to kill him when you mistook his subordinate for him! If you won’t do it now then let me.”  
“You will do no such thing,” said Musstler softly. “You will help me contact some superior officers. When I tried to kill him and shot that seated wretch upstairs, we were under attack and I believed I was about to die. I did it out of desperation. As it happens, he is our prisoner now and he will be of more use to us alive. Now hold your tongue before I change my mind about you and cast you out into the cold. Syldavia is no place to be alone.”  
“You understand nothing, boy,” croaked Jorgen softly. Sponsz hit him, as hard as he could, and felt a searing pain in his hand. Jorgen barely blinked but blood dripped from his mouth.  
Musstler ordered Sponsz to take the captive into an adjoining room. This turned out to be Jorgen’s sleeping quarters, with a mattress on the floor, a single lamp and a filthy toilet on the far side of the room.  
“I don’t understand why you live in this squalor,” said Sponsz. “If you’re such a hero in Syldavia, couldn’t they have put you up somewhere better? They did for Musstler.”  
“My family home is enormous,” said Jorgen softly. “Beautiful. Rose gardens and averies and lakes. But there are those who still think me a traitor so I requested of King Muskar a place to live in safety. This ancient place has protected my comrades and myself from danger.”  
“Not very well,” said Sponsz.  
“Please bring me water,” said Jorgen. “It’s a simple request.”  
“From a man who flung me into a heap of rubbel when I was his prisoner. Sit on the mattress.”  
Sponsz found a packet of cigarettes in a small cupboard next to the mattress. He lit one for himself and, after a few minutes, lit one for Jorgen as well.  
“He’s going to offer me a deal,” said Jorgen bitterly. “He knows I’ll agree to it because I value my life.”  
“Your life is worthless,” said Sponsz.  
“I don’t even know if it was my bullet that hit the bitch,” said Jorgen. “Are you honestly going to hold her death against me when you never knew her?”  
Sponsz was silent. He put Jorgen’s cigarette back into his mouth for him but he spat it out. “He would have done the same,” said Jorgen. “I see the way you look at him. Worshipping the ground he walks on. Do you think he values you? I’ve appreciated shits more than he appreciates you. He’s no different to me, and once we were both no different to you.”  
Sponsz had heard that one before. “Spare me that tired old tale, Jorgen, please,” he said. “I’ve heard it from everyone. I’ve even heard it from the Colonel. I am young and naïve and idealistic and everyone was once like me. I know that speech all too well.”  
“Well you’ve never heard it from a Syldavian, have you?” asked Jorgen. “You could learn something. Borduria is all you know. I enjoy Borduria, I will confess. It is a place of power where men are men, where women know their place and where true fighters are given the glory they deserve while the weak are beaten down before they can hold society back. It is also a grey place, a harsh place and an ugly one. You have never been to Syldavia. You must think it some kind of shithole worse than the one you’re from; well you’re wrong. We have majestic mountains, lakes, a rich and vibrant culture, a proud old history. We are traditionalists who value the teachings of our forefathers, not like your people whose allegiance shifts with their ideals. Honestly, when I was your age I thought Syldavia was a paradise. I fought for it because I loved it. Now I’m just a few years younger than your Musstler. Think on that. He’s seen the same things as me but he retains his loyalties. For my part, I only fight for Syldavia because it’s a more attractive place to live and I have found it beneficial to serve it. I lost my ideals when I was your age, comrade.”  
“As did Musstler. When you and your men betrayed him and took everything he loved away from him.”  
“Does that excuse his actions?” asked Jorgen. “If I were to somehow break free right now, burst into the other room and kill Musstler would it break your spirits to the extent that you could justify war crimes on the scale of those that Musstler and I have committed? Is that all it takes? Losing the people you fight for?”  
Sponsz had to think about that. “No,” he said eventually. “I would fight on, for his memory.”  
“Alright. But consider that he would not want you to. He would want you to be a blunt instrument like him, devoid of mercy or compassion.”  
“We all have different approaches to war,” said Sponsz.  
“You can say that again,” said Jorgen.  
“Who did you lose?” asked Sponsz.  
Jorgen turned to look at him for the first time. “What?”  
“What broke you? Who did you lose?”  
There was a pause. “Nobody,” said Jorgen. He stared into Sponsz’ eyes now and smiled. It was a cold yet almost paternal smile which reminded Sponsz uncomfortably of Musstler. “Well, it wasn’t who I lost so much as why. He was my mentor. A kind, strong, honorable old man who fought with integrity and courage. I was devoted to him just as you are to Musstler although I was never cursed with the burden you bare.”  
“What do you mean by that?”  
Jorgen ignored him. “Well, like you I respected my superior immensely and followed every lesson he taught me. Right up until the day they executed him for treachery. Suspected treachery anyway. Now I never saw proof of his innocence any more than they saw proof of his guilt, but I knew him then and I know him now. There was no man more loyal to the Syldavian cause. So when I saw such a man being shot to pieces by a firing squad for crimes that he could never have conceived of, I knew that I did not care anymore. As far as I was concerned, war was nothing more than a game and I did not care who won. I played to win, gave it my all, earned as much respect and power as I could, but I never delluded myself that one side was right and another was wrong, and your belief that you are serving a just cause will be your undoing my friend.”  
Sponsz never broke his stare. He did not want the traitor to think that he had any influence on him. “We all start somewhere,” he said. “Abandoning your principles didn’t work out for you though. Respect and power? Is that what you call spending your life in a lonely hole in the mountain only to be hunted down by your enemies anyway?”  
“Enemies?” said Jorgen. “I do not consider you to be enemies! Have you not been paying attention? Are you really so dense? Musstler didn’t even kill me! I already told you he’s going to offer me a deal. To you it is so important that I die for my crimes, that the woman is avenged, that Musstler finds peace. He does not care! Because he knows the cost of caring. Apathy is the key to success. There are no friends, no enemies, there is nothing like that out here. We’re all on our own. If it wasn’t so then Musstler wouldn’t have endangered your life and he would have agressively carried out vengeance on me already. And if you think that I regret a single action because of my current predicament then you do not understand the nature of power. Do you think I cared about having to hide away in this dreadful place?”  
“You certainly seem bitter about it,” said Sponsz.  
“Syldavia loves me,” said Jorgen. “The King himself rewarded me for my service.”  
“And where is he now?” asked Sponsz. “Syldavia has foresaken you, Jorgen. You’re in Borduria’s hands now. Whether you would like to admit it or not, you have played a very specific and dangerous game in your quest to live freely without allegiance or principle. And now you are going to suffer the consequences.”  
“Perhaps your desire to see me punished has nothing to do with principles,” said Jorgen. “Perhaps you’re already losing your humanity…. Perhaps you are on your way to becoming me already. And the sad thing is it didn’t even take a tragedy in your life to break you. Just blind loyalty.”  
Sponsz felt a lust for violence building up in him. He could picture his hands clamped around his captive’s thick neck, squeezing the life from him, stamping his head into the ground. If I attack him, I am proving his point. He is Musstler’s, not mine.  
“I see what you are,” said Jorgen softly. “I see a loving, confused little boy burried beneath all of that anger. Guarding his fragile soul. Well it’s not too late to save it. It’s not too late for you and it’s not too late for me either.” He leaned in close so that Sponsz could feel his warm breath. “Let’s get out of here, Sponsz. Together.”


	5. LIBERTY OR DEATH

“Let me tell you why we’re here,” said Jorgen as Sponsz fed him water on the bed. “I came here to hide out and you came here to fulfill a mission which you were willing to give your life to on a point of principle. Both of us have failed. Musstler has failed you, whether you care to admit it or not, because he has no interest in killing me. Your entire mission is therefore futile. I have failed to hide out here because I have been found and my men are dead. Those were my only friends. Now, do we sit around and cry over these failures? We do not. We fight for our freedom and, since our ideals have failed us, we find some new ones to invest in.”  
“I’m sorry, Boris,” said Sponsz, setting down the empty glass next to the bed, “but you had no ideals to begin with.”  
“You don’t know that,” said Jorgen. “I believe wholeheartedly in my nation, as I said.”  
“Which nation? You’ve changed your allegiance so often.”  
“Why not one nation?” Jorgen’s eyes lit up now for the first time. “One empire, Syldavia and Borduria united under my rule. Violence has failed me but perhaps there is another way. If I could escape the ruins of my home, return to my people and inspire them. Motivate them with my words rather than with my fist, create a following, lead them into battle. Bloodlessly conquer Borduria by forming a truce and running as President, the King and I working in cooperation to bring about a better future. And you, my friend, will be free of the burden of war. You can be whoeever you want to be. Do not waste your youth on Musstler. Begin a new life. All you have to do is set me free.”  
Sponsz had thought it over a thousand times since Jorgen first brought it up. Musstler was having a sleep on the other side of a thick concrete wall and it was a simple matter of untying the captive’s ropes and releasing him. How did it profit him to dismiss the words of this man based on the words of another?  
“I can’t,” he said. “I’d die if I set you free.”  
“I swear not to harm you,” said Jorgen.  
“I’d be a traitor and I’d be shot for it. That alone is reason enough not to buy into your plan.”  
“You’ll flee as well,” said Jorgen. “A new life for both of us. Think on it, Sponsz. Do you really want to become like Musstler and myself?”  
“I can be my own man,” said Sponsz. “I have been told I have great potential as a soldier-”  
“Have you no other strengths?” asked Jorgen, and it seemed he spoke with genuine interest.  
“I’m a fine chess player.”  
“So am I.”  
“And I did well in school. Academically.”  
“Just the same. You don’t have to follow Musstler’s lead. I see a politician for you. Or a man of the law. Perhaps there is even a place for you in my new government.”  
“No,” said Sponsz. “Musstler has been more merciful to you than you deserve. You said it yourself- he plans to make a deal.”  
At this Jorgen laughed. “Do you think his deal will be a mercy? He’s going to ask a favor of the king. He probably already has. In Syldavia I am considered a hero. Musstler plans to profit on that, no doubt about it. He’ll demand something unthinkable of my government and, being as they are, bound by an ancient moral code, they will be forced to oblige. That’s why he brought you here. He misled you, led you into the jaws of death, killed and forced you to kill as well, all to capture me alive for his own benefit.”  
“And use you against your own people.” Sponsz had to acknowledge that it was true.  
“I have no people, truly,” said Jorgen. There was a silence. “Whatever Musstler wants, you can be certain that Syldavians will die. You can’t, in good faith, keep me bound here when a bloodthirsty maniac sits on the other side of that wall plotting some way to oppress the peaceful farmking folk of my homeland. Musstler may be charasmatic and impressive but make no mistake, he brings only death.”  
Musstler’s words about crushing the men, women and children of Syldavia echoed in Sponsz’s head. He felt a touch of panic taking hold of him.  
“You don’t know what to do,” said Jorgen with a thin-lipped smile. “If it were me sitting over there, I’d listen to the seasoned prisoner rather than my own naïve prejudices.”  
“Would you untie the seasoned prisoner and set him free though?”  
“No,” said Jorgen without a moment’s thought. “I’d kill him. To prevent the possibility of a deal. Then I’d kill Musstler too and run away. But fortunately for both of us, you are not me.”  
“I need to take a walk,” said Sponsz. His head was splitting and his nausea overwhelming.  
“You have been ordered to guard me, soldier,” said Jorgen. “Do as the noble Musstler commands you.”  
“I can’t!” said Sponsz allowed. “How many men died here today?”  
“Fuck numbers,” said Jorgen with a chuckle. “How about names? Grisha, Boris, Yevska… good friends and true. My namesake you killed yourself.”  
Sponsz could no longer contain his anger. He took a deep breath, steadied himself and stood tall. “Hear me now,” he said. “I am going to untie you, Jorgen. Musstler’s asleep. I know I cannot keep you here but I refuse to run from my transgressions. I’ll stay behind and die a traitor at my Colonel’s hands. That’s a sacrifice I am willing to make on a point of integrity. I hope you will make good on what you have told me here today, but if you don’t it makes no matter to me. This is where my journey ends.”  
The life of a soldier would destroy him if he attempted to negotiate this mess any longer, but at least he could die with his hands relatively clean.  
Relief flooded Jorgen’s face. “You are doing the right thing, Sponsz, I swear it. I swear also to abandon my life of violence. I will owe that to you. And so will my countrymen. When Syldavia and Borduria stand united, Sponsz’s name will be remembered and I will see to it myself that His Grace our king utters it.”  
Sponsz had Jorgen untied before he could allow himself to think on what he was doing. He opened the door, looked through into the cellar and made sure that Musstler slept in his chair by the radio. He saw the big man brace himself to leave and extend a hand, and he shook it, against his better judgment.  
“You’re going to die now, Sponsz,” said Jorgen with a curiously vacant expression. “How does it feel to look death in the face?”  
“You know that for yourself,” said Sponsz.  
“I’ve never looked death in the face, nor do I intend to for a good many years.”  
“Well, personally I’m ready.”  
“Would that it wasn’t so,” said Jorgen. “And Sponsz. Thank you. Truly.”  
He turned and ran for the stairs. His foot had scarcely touched the bottom step when Sponsz found himseld shouting, “Colonel!”  
Within seconds Musstler had leapt to his feet and flung his entire body at the big man on the steps. Jorgen had made a dash for the top but Musstler brought him crashing down, his arms wrapped around his legs, and flung him onto his back where he beat him repeatedly, sending Jorgen’s big head swiftly from side to side, slamming it into the floor as blood spread around him.  
Sponsz put a hand on Musstler’s shoulder. “Colonel, please-”  
Musstler shook him off and continued to hit Jorgen again and again, ignoring his cries for mercy, beating him until his face was obscured almost entirely by blood. Then he rose, turned as if to speak to Sponsz, and slammed his boot down on Jorgen’s face.  
“What happened?” he shouted. There was nothing in all the world as terrifying as Colonel Musstler in his anger.  
“He got his hands free,” murmured Sponsz. “He attacked me.”  
“Well, he won’t be attacking anybody any longer,” roared Musstler. He lifted Jorgen up by the scruff of his neck, slammed him into the stone wall and let his body crumple on the floor. Sponsz was transfixed by the brutal display. He felt his hands tremble. He staired at the broken, whimpering man on the floor and couldn’t find his eyes in the mess of blood and filth. He didn’t want to look him in the eye for the rest of his life. Vomit rose up in him again.  
“Are you going to kill him?” he found himself asking.  
“No,” said Musstler. “King Muskar has agred to a deal and Jorgen is going to cooperate. He can count himself fortunate that a light beating is all he got for trying to escape my merciful captivity.”  
Then he turned to look at Sponsz and picked up his weapon. There was a horrifying fire in his eyes that made Sponsz want to cry and cower on the ground. Pale, shuddering and feeling dealthy ill, Sponsz forced himself to look back at his superior.  
“Jorgen is going to live,” said Musstler’s deep voice, seemingly from a thousand miles across the valley, “but when a prisoner of his importance almost succeeds in escaping, somebody needs to pay for it. Or should anyway. I am willing to forgive your negligence considering that it was remiss of me to bring an undertrained soldier on such a perillous mission as this one. But I have to ask you. Answer me honestly, Sponsz. Did he persuade you to set him free?”  
Sponsz tried to steady himself by holding onto the chair by the radio. He could barely move his lips and his body felt fit to collapse as he trembled on the spot.  
“If he did, you will be taken outside and executed,” said Musstler. “It will grieve me to do it, and I will bury you myself, back on Bordurian soil as befits a soldier of our kind. At least you will die with honor. That is what you care about, is it not? If he truly overpowered you, however, then he is a more dangerous man than even I suspected him to be and his captivity will be far more painful than anything he could have imagined from now on.”  
“So be it,” whispered Sponsz, slowly collapsing into the chair and allowing his shaking body to finally relax. “The traitor overpowered me. Deal with him accordingly.”


	6. The Iron Guard

Corporal Sponsz was a stern, lean man with an untidy mop of dark hair which rose in a small tuft at the center of his forehead. He had a reputation in Borduria as a harsh but fair man, one who had seen terrible things in battle and had been moulded by them and yet never lost sight of his sense of justice and patriotism. As a patriot, he had no equal. Borduria was all he believed in, he would say, and he was willing to do all that was necessary to ensure it’s triumph. In-between he was a man of simple tastes, a man who enjoyed smoking and drinking and gambling, who never raised a hand to a woman or denied an order from a superior. Well-liked, well-respected and unfalteringly loyal to his homeland- he was what one might call a classic Bordurian, the finest specimen the proud nation had to offer.

On one sunlit afternoon in peacetime, however, he could be, quite inexplicably found at a window table of a restaurant in Klow, smoking a cigarette and sipping on a glass of Spradj.

Any Bordurian who happened to be passing through the area would be bowled over in surprise to see the cold, hard face of the Bordurian Corporal amongst the colorful, vibrant folk of Syldavia that were going about their business, munching Slazek and washing it down with vast quantities of mineral water. They would be even more surprised to see the man who joined him and how both men broke into a warm smile upon seeing one another and openly embraced in broad daylight, surrounded by potted roses and brass statues of pelicans.

The newcomer was big-bellied and broad shouldered, with a heavy jawline peppered with stubble and a thick ring of black hair on a shiny balding head. Under his prominent nose was a small, thick black moustache and he wore clothes of black and grey. On one of his bulging arms he wore a green band striped with black and white and decorated with a small red peilcan.

Musstler and Sponsz laughed and talked like brothers reunited for a good ten minutes, reminscing and observing trivialities around them as if they were students on a break before a chill came into the air and their conversation drew to a hault.  
“I must ask,” said Sponsz. “It is only natural for me to be curious… are you still in contact with the man Jorgen?”

“Colonel Jorgen and I have indeed crossed paths on several occasions,” said Musstler in his deep, throaty drone – a decidedly fuller sounding voice since he had put on such considerable weight. “In fact you might say that we have become rather close.”  
Sponsz’s face betrayed no surprise and yet he sucked on his cigrette in a somewhat unsettled manner.

“Oh come now, Sponsz, you knew all about our deal,” said Musstler. “I don’t have any dellusions about the kind of man he is.”

“I am beyond caring about his character,” said Sponsz. “I am anxious to know, however, what it is that the two of you have been working on so closely.”

“Why should we be working on anything?” asked Musstler.

“I can see no other scenario in which you would be in touch with him. Surely he can’t have joined the Iron Guard?”

The Iron Guard was a political organization which Musstler had single-handedly assembled after leaving the war. After a severely wounded and broken Jorgen returned to his King with reports that a ferocious group of Bordurians had savaged him in the mountains, Musstler had been brought in in chains as one of the members of the operation. The Syldavian government must have been overjoyed to seize a prisoner of such weight, however Jorgen, ever the hero of the hour, had sworn that Musstler was a trusted defector. Even when his former captor was heavily chained in a Syldavian prison and at his mercy, Jorgen had not backed down from his story – not until he had ensured Musstler his release and a place in the Syldavian forces. Back in Borduria, of course, there were mutterings of Musstler being a traitor just like Jorgen, but Sponsz had guessed that there must be some larger project afoot and his suspicions had been confirmed when he had heard reports that his beloved former mentor had resigned from serving in the King’s forces and formed a political group of his own – with the intention of some day rulling Syldavia under Bordurian terms, his dream from the very beginning.

Today, Musstler brought his friend to see his headquarters, a dingy concrete building in one of the tranquil backstreets of Klow, where Sponsz found himself looking at robotic green-clad men salluting each other in the Bordurian style, another oddity in the midst of Syldavian suburbia. The soldiers stood and salluted Musstler upon his arrival with a mixture of subservience and comraderie, and Sponsz felt strangely priveleged to be able to walk at ease with this tremendous and feared leader into his private office at the back. Musstler’s journey from war hero to political heavyweight had aged and deformed him, but he was every bit as impressive in a Syldavian office as he had been on the battlfield.

“Alright,” said Musstler, locking the door behind him, “let me tell you all about Boris.”  
“Boris?”  
“Colonel Jorgen.”  
“Ah yes.” Sponsz had quite forgotten that Jorgen’s first name was Boris – a distinctly Syldavian name.  
“I always knew he would agree to help me,” said Musstler, steepling his hands, his face half-shrouded in shadow but his dark eyes alive with excitement at having a confidant at last. Even now that they were able to converse as near-equals, Musstler’s presence was intimidating. “I broke Jorgen’s spirit by defeating him so humiliatingly. And, more importantly, destroyed his faith in the Syldavian government when he was already becoming disillusioned with what they had to offer. They embraced him as a hero and how did they reward him for for his loyalty? They shoved him into a hole in the mountain with a motley crew of halfwaits to protect him. They didn’t protect him. I killed them and I nearly killed him as well. Even you killed a few of them and you had hardly any experience to speak of. The King was not there to protect him – in short, Syldavia failed him, as it fails in all its endeavors. It is a backward nation with an archaic government and spineless, hypocritical citizens - Jorgen knew this all along. They served their purpose for him but it was only when I beat him half to death and held him over the edge of a cliff that he broke down and confessed his loathing for them, the very people that built him up and rewarded him for his treachery.

“So what did he want? A Bordurian pardon. A chance to be a hero in our own country, where being a hero actually _means_ something. And, where there is a solid reward for it. I suppose after all the petticoats and peasants he had begun to long for the bleak efficiency of our great nation. He had also lost any resolve he might have had to abandon his military career. Perhaps he abandoned his lust for power as well. At any rate, he was Syldavia’s favored son once again when he turned up at Kropow Castle with me in chains and several of his bones broken. Where he is now? He is King Muskar’s aide-de-camp and a highly respected man, his name having been restored to greatness. And yet I have the utmost faith that, despite our differences, he will be willing to aid my cause in bringing Muskar down. And that is what the Iron Guard will treat as its top priority. It is the first step in my conquest of both of our nations.”

Sponsz took all of this in in silence. At length, Musstler said, without much concern, “I can see you find it distasteful that I am working with him.”

“Distasteful is not quite the word,” said Sponsz, remembering the pity he had felt for Jorgen when they had him bound in the Syldavian mountains and killed his closest comrades. _I nearly released him_ , he reflected. _We seemed so alike back then_. The silent gaze of Musstler seemed to read his every thought. “Jorgen is a fine soldier,” he said, “and clearly his tenacity is worthy of admiration. But aide-de-camp to the king? And presumably, should you take the government, he will become yours as well?”

“He is my most important ally, believe me. But I can assure you, Sponsz,” Musstler added quickly with one of his almost-smiles, “you will have a place in my government too.”

“I think I shall stay on Bordurian soil if it’s all the same with you.”

“Very well. I’ll make you President of Borduria. Imagine that? Syldavia and Borduria united under our rule – me over here, you over there, and when I’m gone it may all be yours.”

“I am hardly fit to rule a nation,” said Sponsz, “let alone two. I live to serve.”

“I would have said the same once,” said Musstler. “And many would think it of me. But it makes no matter. I will take the government by force and prove my metal as a leader of men. After that, I will expand my interests, and you had best be sure my harshest critics will bend the knee just as Jorgen does now.”

“Be my guest,” said Sponsz. “I want no part in revolution, but I wish you all the best.”

Musstler smiled. “You’re a strange man, Sponsz. So distant and inscrutible to me after all this time. Just when I believe you’ve come around you prove otherwise. But what if I told you that there need not be a revolution at all?”

For the first time since they had arrived in Musstler’s office, Sponsz’s impassive face gave a slight flicker of life. “Well now I am interested,” he said.

Musstler’s smile broaded, showing all his polished teeth, but his eyes remained as cold and empty as ever. “Forgive me, my friend,” he said, “but I cannot divulge such information. Instead I can tell you only about my organization and what we stand for. The Iron Guard are proud men who believe in martyrdom, who despise communism and capitalism above all things,, and who prioritize those of pure Bordurian blood. Discipline, work, silence, education and honor, these are our principles. Most of my men are of the Catholic faith – I have no great interest in religion myself but it serves as a convenient means to rope them in. I have a way with words as you know. Once the seed is sown in a man’s head that he is incomplete until he becomes a part of something divine, something indestructible, he will bend to your will and do anything you command. He’ll die for you.”

“Is that what you did with me?” asked Sponsz with the slightest hint of a smile. Musstler shook his head. “You were never a mere martyr. I fully expected you to survive our adventures together because I saw the potential for greatness in you. Most of the men of the Iron Guard will never achieve greatness, but they will devote their lives to enabling those who are worthy to do so. And they are willing to give their lives to this cause, believe me. There is anger in Syldavia, my friend. It is a nation founded on conflict. They want some form of resolution so they come to me. If they fail me, they are shot. Few do.”

“Forgive me,” said Sponsz, “but I cannot join you. My place is in service to my government.”

Musstler’s brow furrowed. “As is mine. I too live to serve Borduria’s interests, and Jorgen as well if you can believe such a thing. You must understand,” said Musstler, “that when I was a prisoner, Jorgen could have betrayed me and washed his hands of me. We work with whomever we must. That’s why we formed an alliance. I could have been executed by Syldavian forces. I could have conveniently disappeared within their prisons. Others have when they dared to cross him. In fact one of them, an imprisoned murderer, tried to wrap his own chains around my neck to throttle me and Jorgen intervened, slammed his head against a wall and killed him on the spot.”

“You may trust Jorgen all you like,” said Sponsz. “It’s your methods that I cannot support. I didn’t like them back in wartime and I don’t now. In fact I doubt that I ever will. You’re a true leader and a pragmatist but I find everything that you and your Iron Guard stand for more backward and oppressive than anything Muskar and his Syldavian toadies ever conceived of.”

That seemed to cut Musstler like a knife. For a second it looked as if he would turn to anger, but Sponsz reminded himself that he no longer feared him and that if Musstler should strike out against him he had only to assure the Bordurian authorities that the man was a traitor. The big man smiled though and said, “So be it. We all serve in whatever way we choose. I hope some day to meet you at the top but until then I trust you’ll do your duty.” He welcomed Sponsz into one more embrace and they parted.

“Sponsz,” he said suddenly, as if remembering something out of nowehere. “I wonder if you might take a message to your superiors. I don’t know how much our government knows about the mission I’m on, but you’re the only person I can trust to get a direct message to them and reassure them of my loyalty.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed an envelope sealed with a red pelican. “It’s all explained in here,” he said, holding it out with a flourish. “Give it to the highest possible man you trust and see to it that nobody else gets hold of it. This is of paramount importance if I am to achieve my dream without the risk of Bordurian intervention.”

“You called me to Klow for this?” asked Sponsz, holding it up distastefully, the realization dawning on him. Again, there was a flicker of anger on Musstler’s face, but soon it spread into another of his broad but empty smiles. “You know you’re the only one I trust.”

Sponsz did not return the smile. Where seconds earlier he had felt that his lack of enthusiasm for the work of the Iron Guard had deeply dissappointed Musstler, it was now his turn to feel betrayed. After sharing so many adventures it seemed that in peacetime the two of them could find no common ground, no shared ideal beyond that of loving their nation and hating its enemies. They were worlds apart as they had always been and without the comraderie and common foes that war provided them with, it was doubtful that they could ever talk as friends. But he nodded, said, “I will make sure to deliver your message”, and left.

The members of the Iron Guard saluted him on his way out and he saw the grim face of his former mentor watching him from a high window as he called for a cab.


	7. The Syldavian

On Sponsz’s twenty-fifth birthday, at the height of wartime, Musstler had taken him to a cave on the outskirts of Borduria. It was here, Musstler had said, that he had come to live when his father threw him out. “He wanted me to follow in his footsteps you see,” Musstler had said, “and I wanted something greater, although I must confess that what I left home for was not particularly great. I lived the life of a beggar, seeking shelter in this foul hole in the ground and painting as a passtime to keep me occupied. It was a pleasant departure from what I knew, all things considered. I had to learn to preserve my autonomy. I had always been a pawn in the political arguments of Borduria you see – a revolutionary for a father and a Catholic for a mother. An expensive and unhappy education at the hands of monks. I had to escape it all and, thankfully, I was given the boot.”

All Bordurians had lived in fear of Syldavian immigrants in those days and Musstler had been no exception, constantly armed, desperately hungry and furious at his countrymen for allowing Syldavians to enlist in their ranks. “I avoided conscription for a while because of it,” he had admitted to Sponsz, “tried fleeing the country and, when I found that greener pastures did not exist, I worked as a stonemason and even as a smith. I got some muscles and a few bashed up fingers out of that but nothing more to boast of. When I did eventually join the army I was half-blinded in an explosion within three months. A consequence of the foolishness of youth. And imagine this, Sponsz,” he had said, “– only a week later I lost my sight again when I heard the news that we had suffered a crippling defeat to those bastards. I was a sensitive boy, like you.” He had dreamed of revolution and nationalism all his life, and his struggle to make a name for himself on the battlefield and work his way towards political influence had been an unpleasant and a bloody one.

It was during those long nights in this cave, Colonel Sponsz thought now as he stood at the mouth of it, that Musstler must have left behind the need for comforts and indulgences, that he must have formed the hard resolve and cruelty that served him so well in later life. He had studied the writings of Nietzsche, Machievelli and the great Bordurian philosopher and revolutionary Sprodjikov, forming firmly-rooted ideas of removing decadence, liberalism, religion, multiculturalism and indulgence from the political landscape by seducing people with promises of greatness and unity, and killing those that stood between him and the great ideal coming into fruition.

In Klow, as leader of the Iron Guard, Musstler had, by all reports, turned his dream into a reality. His political writings had taken Syldavia by storm and, after so many years of recognition only as a soldier and as a Bordurian, he had been embraced at last as an intellectual and visionary. It was only a matter of time, Sponsz believed, before his political ideas dominated the governance of both Syldavia and Borduria, for better or for worse.

The effectiveness of Musstler’s inevitable rule Sponsz could not predict. Whilst he abhored the Iron Guard’s ideals he retained a an admiration for its leader, and, staring into the inky darkness of the cave that they had visited together, he felt a strange warmth, even now, towards the man whose influence had changed the course of his life so dramatically. Musstler had known, after all, at their last meeting, that the delivery of crucial information by Sponsz to the Bordurian authorities would earn him the recognition Musstler had always claimed to think him worthy of, and indeed it had. Here he was today, a colonel and a respected agent of the ZEP, frequently assigned to the secret police for missions which gravely affected the future of his nation. Whilst he was a ruthless disciplinarion and remained as patriotic as ever, Sponsz had never forgotten the frightened boy that Musstler had led into this cave by the arm, that had sat wide-eyed in the darkness listening to his stories. _He truly was all I had_ , he reflected bitterly, _and I deserved better than a magelomanical manipulator_.

Sponsz had not come to the cave to reflect on days gone by. He had been asked by his superiors to inspect the cave on suspicion that an illegal Syldavian immigrant had been hiding out there. A few days before, a local civilian had wandered too far from home and gone missing out in this empty, smoggy wasteland. Although he had never harbored true grudges based on heritage, Sponsz couldn’t help but feel resentment that what had once been the home of Borduria’s finest soldier now housed a reject from its rival nation. Although active violence between the two countries had died out years ago, tensions remained and bubbled to the surface every time one nation made an advancement in any field or even slightly offended or provoked its rival.

This particular operation would be brief and direct. Sponsz would not waste time asking questions about the missing civilian – he had, no doub,t carried clothes, coin and perhaps even food that the foreigner desired. The man would be quickly executed and the colonel would return to his duties. Slowly, as silent and agile as a cat, he crept into the darkness with his back pinned to the damp wall. How terrifying this place had been to him on his last visit – and how frightening to the young Musstler and now to the doomed Syldavian.

The sound of heavy breathing made apparent the presence of the target. Sponsz cocked his gun and said, “Step into the moonlight with your hands on your head if you want my aim to be accurate.” To his utter amazement the man that emerged from the darkness was Boris Jorgen.

The two men stood in silence for a few seconds, regarding each other with a mixture of curiosity and amazement. More so than encountering a former enemy alone in the dark, Sponsz was taken aback by the state the other colonel was in – he appeared to have put on weight (although not nearly as much as Musstler at their last meeting) and his neatly parted black hair was thick with grease. His black millitary jacket was tattered and torn and a cut ran down the side of his face. When they had last spoken, in the mountains of Syldavia, Jorgen had been beaten bloody and frightened, but wiley and cruel nonetheless. Tonight, the man Sponsz saw before him eminated bitterness, coldness and hatred. Not towards him in particular, he imagined, but towards anyone and everyone regardless of creed or colour.

“Syldavia walks among us,” said Sponsz.

“I am no Syldavian,” said Jorgen in the same distant whisper he had used as a captive. “I am not Bordurian either.”

“What are you, Jorgen?”

Jorgen shook his head. “I’m surprised to see you, Sponsz. You look well.”

“I’m surprised you recognize me.”

“As am I. ‘Well’ is an understatement. You’ve become a proper soldier.”

“A colonel, like you,” said Sponsz with a thin-lipped smile. “And you? A desserter?”  
Jorgen slowly sat down at the mouth of the cave and looked out at the starlight. “A desserter of what? I was flung in a Syldavian prison and only found my way out thanks to a friend on the inside. One of our revolutionaries that wasn’t sussed out and imprisoned. Such is my good fortune.” He spat.

“Imprisoned?” asked Sponsz, still never daring to lower his gun. He had a strange curiosity for the idea of killing Jorgen in cold blood and completing a project that had been left unfinished years before. Nonetheless, he had no real reason to hate the man when Musstler had abandoned both his grudge against Jorgen and his attempts to convert Sponsz to his worldview.

“It’s over, Sponsz,” said Jorgen simply.

Sponsz nodded, unsure of what he was supposed to feel. Strangely, he felt nothing. “Is Musstler alive?”

“When last I checked. Alive in a cell somewhere in the bowels of Klow. Forget him,” said Jorgen, “there’s no hope for revolution now. If Musstler couldn’t do it no one ever can. And the proud nation of Borduria has proved itself to be another forgotten shit-heap from another era trying to find a voice in the modern world as we all knew it to be.”

Sponsz seized Jorgen by the scruff of his neck and flung him onto his back, shoving the gun right up against his cheek. “Speak up, Jorgen, or I swear I’ll blow you half to pieces. Why did you abandon Musstler? And in what state? How did Muskar come to intercept the revolution?”

“There was no revolution as you well know!” snapped Jorgen. “It was an act of deception, designed to enable Bordurian forces to peacefully move in and take Kropow Castle without hasstle or bloodshed. But it was pulled apart and all of its agents, myself included, identified and arrested. I knew from the beginning that the plan was unstable. I told Musstler so myself. The man that was going to be largely responsible for the operation was a retired blackmailer from Belgium who posed as his own twin brother. Ludicrus! Oh, of course it sounded good on paper but he refused to let Musstler and myself arrange the death of his twin – insisted on abducting him instead out of ‘familial loyalty’. How on each can such a plan succeed? The old fool is in prison now as well and I hope he rots there.”

“Why is Musstler in there with him though?” roared Sponsz, striking Jorgen across the head with the side of his weapon. “You said you had an inside man. Why could he not get Musstler out if he managed to free you?”

“Musstler? The leader of the Iron Guard? The mastermind of the operation, Borduria’s sweetheart? Never. It would have been lunacy to even attempt-”  
“He got you out. You were a highly regarded man there, Boris.”

“Not anymore.”

Sponsz knelt down and stared at the thin trickle of blood running down Jorgen’s cheek. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to shoot him on the spot or bring him in for questioning. For all he knew Jorgen could be hailed as a hero here. For all he knew Jorgen was a hero.

“Believe me, Sponsz,” said Jorgen, “I tried to make the best of this. Musstler didn’t have to spare my life – I understood that. And, for what it’s worth, I bare you no grudge for not showing me mercy last time I was your prisoner. I tried to have men killed, I won the king’s trust – all manner of carefully plotted acts to ensure that Syldavia fell. What will I get for it? Even here in the land I served I’ll be remembered as Syldavian scum. ‘Syldavia walks among us.’ I never chose to be Syldavian, but there it is, and my valiant efforts in service of this land are deemed worthless. I cannot wipe the Syldavian stain from me any more than I can bring Borduria to glory, and Musstler’s given up the fight as well. By all reports attempted suicide seconds before his arrest. If he hasn’t hanged himself in his cell or persuaded his captors to break Syldavian policy and execute him, he has allowed his heart to give in and died of natural causes. His health has been on the brink for months now as it stands. I doubt he’ll have much longer. Forget him. For your good and his. Do you remember what I told you when last we spoke – before you had Musstler beat me and stood by as he broke my finger bones and nearly shoved me over a cliff?”

“I remember nothing,” said Sponsz. “My time with Musstler is finished.”

“Well I told you not to waste your youth on him. And I am sure he told you the same thing many times. What would he have expected of you now?”

_He would have expected me to be hardened a soldier, as he always wanted me to be. A man like him, Musstler, who made peace with his sworn enemy and forgave the death of his beloved in the name of his cause._

But Sponsz had never been that man. A hardened soldier perhaps but he was compassionate and loyal and he had no intention of abandoning a former friend, even an ailing one, at the mercy of their enemies.

“I’m going to break him out myself,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Jorgen. “What do you want? A world war? Let him die with dignity.”

“Bordurian forces will storm Klow and kill as many Syldavians as it takes to get him out of there.”

“It will never succeed,” said Jorgen sadly. “Believe me, I desire nothing more in this world than the spilling of Syldavian blood. But the Bordurians are, I am certain, still doubtful of my loyalty and Musstler’s. We were both so deeply undercover and, without a revolution to show for our hard work, how can we be of any use to anyone? Borduria has forgotten Musstler just as it has forgotten me.”

Sponsz was not listening to him. He had risen now and was pacing frantically, stepping in and out of the shadows of the cave. “Jorgen,” he said at last, “put me into contact with your man. The Syldavian. That’s all I ask.”

“The poor fool has probably been found out and arrested already,” said Jorgen.  
“We don’t know that. We can find out. If you value your life, Jorgen, make him help me. Not for Borduria’s sake but for Musstler’s.”

“As it happens,” said Jorgen, rising and standing tall. “I don’t value my life. I’m afraid, Sponsz, that you’ll find me a very different man to the coward that begged you for his freedom in a Syldavian bunker. By all means kill me. I doubt you’ll be rewarded for it but perhaps you’ll feel a certain sense of pride for having avenged your beloved Musstler. You did, after all, come here in search of the poor fool I strangled and devoured? Well, you’ve caught his murderer and you can complete two missions with one kill. Go on, Sponsz.”

Sponsz shook his head. “I’m not offering you anything for helping me. I’m just going to ask for your assistance. I could threaten you with torture if I wanted to but I’m sure you’d have an answer for me then too.”

“I’m sure I would,” said Jorgen.

“I’m appealing to your better nature here,” said Sponsz. “As an equal. As a soldier and a comrade.”

Jorgen laughed mirthlessly. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements for Musstler’s escape,” said Jorgen. “I am not obliged to do so, Sponsz, but I will do so nonetheless.”

Sponsz lowered his gun for the first time now. “I will let you leave this cave with your life, Jorgen. I am not obliged to do so.”

“Syldavia thanks you,” said Jorgen.


	8. Alexei

Even in a doctor’s coat in the half-light of the office, Alexei found Colonel Sponsz unsettling. Not frightening, but undeniably unsettling, with his lean frame, black crew-cut and small, dark eyes. Alexei had encountered his sort many times before – a skeletal figure who could easily disappear into a crowd but would emerge from the shadows and cut your throat without the slightest warning just when you thought you’d seen the last of him.

 

Alexei was a lean, serious and intelligent Syldavian, often misjudged, seldom appreciated but generally well-liked by the other guards. He was an expert at cracking codes and as such was often put in charge of the radio. He also had a fine brain for mathematics. What he kept close to his chest at all times was that he was a member of the highly prestigious Boratov family, who were connected somehow, he had been told, to King Muskar himself although he could never quite work out how far back the connection was. Should it ever become public knowledge he could run the risk of ostrasization based on a supposed unfair advantage in Muskar’s service so it was a top priority for him to keep his heritage to himself.

Alexei’s position and status had been especially convenient when the Iron Guard had needed him to spy on Syldavian officials. After the attempted revolution had been exposed, Muskar’s investigations had failed to identify Alexei as a member of the enemy faction and he had lived to continue working in the prison, checking in everyday on his former comrades, Musstler, Alekov the guard and Alfred, the senile old man who yelled at him for more books from his dirty cell. For a while, Alexei had brought food to Colonel Jorgen, who had been the only prisoner to approach him and ask for his freedom. He was the only one who did not think himself honor bound to die in prison for his failure. Alexei and Jorgen got along although one had to be cautious with people like him. Jorgen had alternately asked every day for either a way out or a cyanide capsule and when Alexei had asked him why he was so determined to flee Syldavia if he had nowhere to go and no apparent will to live, Jorgen had cursed him. He had come to his aid, nonetheless, smuggled the formeraide-de-camp to his freedom, and tonight he assured Colonel Sponsz for the fifth time that he was going to succeed in doing the same for Musstler.

“Let me say again, Colonel,” said Alexei, “that Musstler does not _wish_ to leave.”

“But he will,” said Sponsz coldly. “And if the operation is not a success, Alexei, I will hold you personally responsible.”

_He thinks I fear him_ , thought Alexei. _I may find him unsettling, but fear is quite another matter. I could launch another war against his people and see that it is won if I should choose to change allegiances. He has no idea of the power I hold._ But surely, once Musstler was out, Sponsz would know what he was capable of. Perhaps he would even be rewarded.

“Explain to me the procedure,” said Sponsz, fidgiting with a Bordurian cigarette. Alexei supressed a sigh. It had been hard enough to get Sponsz into the building. Alexei had passed him off as a medic and rushed him past the other guards. This had been easier when they smuggled Jorgen out, for an actual medic with Bordurian loyalties had done the job and Jorgen had murdered him and hit Alexei over the head in order to make Alexei’s hands appear cleaner. The unfortunate medic had been held accountable for Jorgen’s escape and Alexei had evaded punishment. Tonight, however, he would almost certainly be exposed if he didn’t cover every track and he wished to Borduria and back that Jorgen hadn’t recommended him as the de facto smuggler of prisoners. It would be too suspicious that the two most important political prisoners had broken free on his watch, under such similar circumstances, and he’d be forced to flee to Borduria where he had been assured Sponsz would ensure him a reward and a home as Syldavia had once done for Colonel Jorgen. He had his doubts as to whether or not this would happen, but his top priority was to ensure his own safety. Should he stick around, even if by some chance he was not exposed, the trend would certainly continue and he would find himself responsible for the freedoms of more and more political prisoners. 

“In a few minutes,” he said to Sponsz, “Musstler will be brought in so that you can ‘attend to his health’. The men that bring him in are my colleagues, fools who will not recognize you as a Bordurian and will believe you a bona fide medic. When we did this with Jorgen I was posted outside the door but they won’t allow the risk to be taken again. I will be asked to wait inside with you. Musstler’s health being examined will seem quite legitimate given his very real health concerns at the moment; His Grace King Muskar wants his prisoners kept in good health and well-treated.”

“May I ask how Jorgen came to require a medical check-up?” said Sponsz.

Alexei smiled darkly. “He had me lace his meal with a mild strain of poison. Enough to make him sick without it being fatal. We acquired the necessary medicine to treat him and the rest was easy.”

Sponsz bowed his head with apparent respect. Then he tensed up again. “What’s keeping them?”

“I assure you, Colonel, nothing is amiss.”

“I hope not. Although at least if we are seized we know that this spineless king will treat us like royalty.”

The door opened and in came two grey-uniformed men, both baring the same pelican emblem that Alexei wore on his jacket. They were his colleagues, Sashav and Beshav, both good men but somewhat lacking in wit. Between them they led Musstler.

When he saw the condition the prisoner was in, Sponsz seemed to nearly blew his cover. He was stoic and firm in his medical persona, but the horror he felt was visible on his lean face when he beheld the broken, pale Musstler being roughly sat down at the table and instantly sagging forward, head in hands. Musstler had gone completely bald, and there was a scar over the back of his head which he had acquired in a fight during his initial arrest. He was unshaved and jaundiced, everything sagging from his jowels to his big belly and his drooping toothbrush moustache.

“I will stand guard,” said Alexei.

“Make sure we don’t have another Colonel Boris,” said Sashav with a lightly-heartedly stern look.

 “I will make sure,” said Alexei. His two comrades left and shut the door behind them. The only eyes on the three men now were those of King Muskar’s pale, placid face in a painting that hung above the door.

 Alexei leaned over the hunched, drooling figure of Musstler and hissed, “Musstler, Colonel Sponsz is here to break you out. Like we did with Jorgen. I’m leaving with you this time.” Musstler said nothing. “The three of us are going to make for your homeland,” said Alexei. “You’re going home.”

 “I’m not going anywhere,” croaked Musstler. Sponsz sat down beside him at the table. He put a hand on the bony shoulder.

“Musstler.”

Musstler looked up at him with enormous, bloodshot eyes. “Forget me, Sponsz. Let me die in this place.”

“I’m not leaving you,” said Sponsz evenly. “Come on, we don’t have much time.”

  
“I command you to leave me,” said Musstler in a voice that was barely audible. “I want you to. Please. You’ve always followed my orders with such dedication-”

  
“Not anymore,” said Sponsz. “You’re a prisoner now and I’m a Bordurian official, and I’m ordering you to leave with me.”

 

“You’re a bloody fool,” whispered Musstler.

  
“No, you’re a fucking idiot!” hissed Sponsz, shaking him into an upright sitting position by both shoulders. “We have to leave now. I’ve come all this way and Alexei here is blowing his cover for you. We’re putting our lives on the line for you so respect us accordingly.”

“You followed me blindly,” said Musstler with a faint smile, revealing a set of broken teeth. “You knew what I was.”

 “I still do,” said Sponsz.

 “I threw everything away for my dream,” said Musstler. “My education, the opportunities my father provided for me. I killed thousands and I would have killed millions and it was all for nothing.”

 “No it wasn’t,” whispered Sponsz frantically, fury rising up in him. “You would have made it to the top if not for a few small miss-steps. You would have been a fine leader.”

  
“Would I? If Borduria agreed to put me in charge of Syldavia I planned to have Muskar executed.”

 “Understandable.”

“Along with all of the Syldavian government. I planned to round up and extermiante Syldavians en masse. Is that the kind of man you want to bring home with you?”

Sponsz shook his head. “No it’s not. Nonetheless. We need to get you onto Bordurian soil before-”

“Before I die? I am already dead, Sponsz. Now get out or I swear in the name of our beloved nation will call the guards and tell them who you are.”

Sponsz muffled Musstler’s dry lips with his hand and pulled him onto his feet. “Keep him handcuffed,” he barked at Alexei. “We’re going to force him out of here.”

It was at this moment that Sashav and Beshav returned, roused from their nightly patrol by the outcry. Musstler’s thin grey shirt was beginning to tear as Sponsz dragged him to his feet, so when the latter saw the door slowly open, he wripped it off completely and thrust his stethoscope against the frail man’s chest. The force of it was almost enough to knock Musstler from his feet.

“What’s going on?” asked Beshav. There was a pause.

 

“He’s getting me ready for a last fuck!” shouted Musstler. “What does it look like?”

Sponsz’s hands tensed on his shoulders and chest, but the stethoscope looked real enough and thankfully Musstler had not made good on this threat to get them all shot.

 

“We heard shouting.”

  
“He’s a difficult prisoner,” said Sponsz with a false smile of his own.

 

Sashav and Beshav closed the door and sat down at either end of the table in unison.

“We’re going to stay,” said Beshav.

 

“I’m sure there’s no need, comrade,” said Alexei.

 

“For your safety,” said Sashav.

 

“I’m sure my check-up is complete, doctor,” said Musstler. “Now I wish to be returned to my cell, please, and good luck to you on your way.”

 

There was a pause. Time seemed to halt as Sponsz scanned the dark room for a solution. Then he pulled his gun from inside the doctor’s coat and shoved it against Alexei’s head. The skinny guard closed his eyes in a very good impression of fear.

“Guns on the table and hands in the air, both of you,” said Sponsz. “Either of you move and your friend here is first to die.”

 

Beshav and Sashav did as he commanded.

 

“Let him go,” pleaded Beshav, making a big show of putting his hands in the air.

“And us,” added Sashav. “We’re not threat. Let us go. We’re fathers and husbands-”

“You’re cowards,” croaked Musstler with a laugh. “Sponsz, you never cease to amaze me. What’s your plan now?”

 

“I’m going to bind these three,” said Sponsz, never taking his eyes from the two trembling guards and never taking his gun from the forehead of the third. “Then we’re going to leave. And gentlemen, I suggest you inform your king that he needs far more secure facilities if he is going to convince anyone that he is fit to rule this joke of a nation. It’s a shame. I was growing to like it, really. But not only are you capable of almost being annexed by a camera and a spring but once the perpetrators are captured all it takes is one doctor to smuggle them out.”

 

“Leave me, Sponsz,” Musstler suddenly whispered again, and the desperation in his tone silenced the colonel. “If you return me to Borduria I will recover my health and take revenge on all Syldavians. That is a promise. I’ll kill commoners, children, anyone I can access. Their blood will be on your hands and mine. And being a filthy coward like these two trembling fools, you’ll never survive that.”

 

Sponsz knew Musstler was only trying to ensure that he was abandoned or killed and yet Sponsz couldn’t help but feel that he was telling the truth. With his gun still on Alexei’s head he looked into the big damp eyes of the shirtless, shrivelled man in a silent plea for the Musstler of old to return. But that was impossible now. Even if they did reach the Bordurian frontier together, the men they had once been could never be restored.

 

“What are you?” asked Sponsz was disgust.

 

“What I always was,” said Musstler softly. “What I always was and will be. And what you’ll become too if you want to survive. I told you that before. All those lessons about apathy and what do you do? You come to Klow to rescue me from my death bed. Perhaps you’ll never learn. But perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps I ought to be more appreciative of undying loyalty.” He slowly sat down at the table again.

 

They all remained motionless in the dingy little office, the withered, shirtless man seated at the table, sweat dripping from his sagging body and bald head. The cold, lean doctor standing over him, his gun trained on a guard who calmly stood with his eyes closed behind round spectacles. The two quaking comrades seated at the table with their arms behind their heads. Then Musstler said with a surprisingly brusque tone, “Well, Sponsz, congratulations on making colonel and be sure to pass my thanks on to Jorgen. Thank you as well. Amaih.” He closed his eyes and collapsed from the chair.

 

As soon as the limp body hit the floor the room errupted into a flurry of activity. Beshav and Sashav leapt to their feet, perhaps hoping to take the moment to grab their guns, but Sponsz flipped the table onto its side so that their weapons fell out of their reach, and in the same motion flung Alexei over the rim of the table so that he was bent down with Sponsz’s gun on the back of his head.

 

“Fetch medical help!” shouted Sponsz. “That’s an order.” The men did not move. “I don’t care if you shoot me or fling me in prison,” Sponsz roared, “but get this man a real doctor or I will bring the full might of Borduria and all its allies down on your filth nation, Move!”

 

Beshav and Sashav shuffled towards the door. Sponsz waved his gun at them and returned it to Alexei’s head. “Go, or he dies along with you. I’m not a real medic, you fucking idiots, fetch help!”

 

“He’s gone,” said Sashav in a shaking voice.

 

“He’s breathing!” roared Sponsz, kneeling with one hand on the bare stomach of the crumpled lump on the floor. “He’s alive, he’s fucking breathing, now get a doctor!”

“Let him die,” whispered Alexei, his fear evidently genuine now. “He told you he wanted to die, now please let’s escape and leave this mess behind us.”

 

“Let the tyrant die,” pleaded Beshav frantically, “you heard the kind of man he is!”

Sponsz shot Beshav dead. Sashav screamed when he saw his friend fall and Alexei keeled over and vomitted. “Please Sponsz,” he cried as he retched, “we agreed that none of my colleagues would be harmed.”

 

The realization seemed to hit Sashav for the first time that his friend had been on Sponsz’s side and he stepped back in horror. Sponsz leapt to his feet, leaving the sobbing Alexei clinging to the fallen table, and ran at Sashav, kicking the head of Beshav as he went. He seized Sashav by his hair and shoved the gun into his mouth. “Get a doctor!” he roared.

 

“Colonel,” said a faint voice behind him which he thought for a fleeting moment came from Musstler.

 

When he turned his head he saw Alexei, drenched in vomit and sweat and sitting upright, pointing at the body of Musstler. “He’s dead,” said Alexei through his tears. “Musstler’s dead now let’s escape. No more bloodshed.”

 

To weep for Musstler would have been to have taken all of his lessons in vain. Instead Sponsz pulled the trigger and blew a hole through the head of Sashav, letting his body double back beside that of his comrade. Alexei crumpled again, his body shaking with sobs.

 

“What do you have to cry about?” asked Sponsz calmly, rising to his feet. “You lost a friend? Well so did I. Do you see me crying?”

 

Alexei continued to sob.

 

“You can forget about a Bordurian reward,” said Sponsz. Now Alexei looked up with a flushed face and whimpered. “I did all I could.”

 

“Not enough,” said Sponsz.

 

“Please,” whimpered Alexei as the gun turned to his face. Sponsz shot him between the eyes, shattering his skull and spectacles and so completing his eradication of any evidence that anthing lived besides himself.

 

He killed five more guards in order to escape the building that night and as he plowed through the filthy corridors of the prison he felt the tears finally take hold of him. By the time he had broken free and shot what appeared to be a civilian blocking the doorway on his way out, he had cried his last. He returned to Borduria the following day and wrote up his report on the life and death of Benolf Musstler, naming him the bravest man he knew, defiant to the end. He made no efforts, however, to encourage the transportation of the body back to Borduria. The bloody fool should have sorted that one out for himself.


End file.
